"'Why, I do believe you are one of Mother Carey's chickens,' I exclaimed.
"'My proper name is the Stormy Petrel; still the sailors call me Mother Carey's chicken. I do not know why, but then sailors have queer ideas. Bless you, I can frighten them terribly by just skimming round and round on the wind: they then reef all sails, thinking I am about to bring a storm by my presence. Ha, ha!' laughed the bird merrily, 'only think of little me being dreaded by great, strong men. I can generally tell when a storm is coming,—they are right in supposing that much,—and oh! how I enjoy it! Why, friend Wasp, you have no idea what life really is, just fluttering about among the flowers and trees: I should gasp for breath where every thing is only still sunshine. What I call life is to see the clouds piled in dark masses overhead, the waves rearing mountains high, and to have the wind blow a hurricane.'
"'I should imagine such exposure would beat the life out of you,' I remarked.
"'Not at all,' replied the Petrel. 'I like to be tossed about, and spread my wings on the gale, although it may nearly take my breath away.'
"'I never dreamed of such a life,' I said; 'please tell me more about yourself.'
"'First I must feed my young one, as I have been away all day. We never lay but one egg, fortunately, for we have to feed them ourselves. We secrete a kind of oil in the digestive organs for them. Indeed, we are such oily birds, that in some parts of the world the natives thrust a stick through our bodies, and use us for lamps.'
"'You are gone so long,' piped the nursling.
"'That is to find something to eat, my dear.'
"'The time is so long, doing nothing but sit alone, staring out at the sea,' clamored the nursling.
"'Very true,' assented the mother Petrel quietly; 'but there is no help for it, except to grow strong and fly for yourself.'